


Gross Misunderstandings

by Thighkyuu



Category: Marvel, X-Men, xmen - Fandom
Genre: Soulmate AU, have a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 09:22:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16851421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thighkyuu/pseuds/Thighkyuu
Summary: Soulmate AU where people are born with tattoos of their soulmate's first word to them on their wrist





	Gross Misunderstandings

Sometimes, Peter’s wrist burned.

  It wasn’t an unusual occurrence for him (at least, not anymore), nor was it unheard of for others wrists to burn sometimes. Everyone always said that if your wrist was burning, it meant that your soulmate was looking at the tattoo there. It was a nice sentiment, he knew, but he had been skeptical of this theory since before he could remember, and for several reasons. The first and foremost reason being that, if the theory was, in fact, true, everyone’s wrist would burn much more frequently than they are known to burn. He guessed - no, he knew - that, without trying, people look at their wrist quite a bit. No, he reasoned, that theory  _must_ be incorrect. It had to be something else.

  This was where his own theory came into play. He believed that the burning was caused by significant emotion from your soulmate, or perhaps from a significant event in your soulmate’s life. Or perhaps everyone’s wrist simply burned for fun. Perhaps humans were dying out. Either theory made more sense, however these theories were irrelevant. They did not matter to him, at least, not compared to the magnitude of the work inked on his wrist.

_**Gross.** _

  The first word his soulmate ever said to him… would be ‘ _gross’._  What a way to start a relationship! He scowled as his wrist burned again, his dark eyes drifting down to the accursed word, the black ink poking out from under the sleeve of his jacket.

  Having ‘gross’ tattooed on his wrist had been an odd sort of accomplishment when he was younger - it made him different, unique - but, as he got older, he had come to resent the word and all of the implications it carried with it. The word that once gave him childish pride became his mark of shame.

   _Gross_  did not imply a happy beginning or anything even relatively romantic. No, gross implied disgust - and, to a certain extent, hatred. He hated to think his soulmate would be disgusted with him upon meeting him, that his soulmate would hate him. Sure, he was a loser - he would admit that - but he wasn’t  _that_ bad looks-wise. At least, he hoped. He’d always been relatively confident, but this whole situation had caused him to rethink his opinion.

  He sighed, ignoring the continual burning of his wrist and pulling his headphones on. He scowled as rain began to fall from the sky, lightly at first and then picking up within seconds. He ignored it, walking away from the now-wet bench he had been sitting on. Within minutes the rain had completely drenched everything, creating puddles of water and mud and soaking Peter. He cursed himself internally; he’d been so lost in thought that he hadn’t noticed the rain clouds moving in. And sure, he could’ve simply run through it, but where would the fun in that be?  _For someone whose brain works faster than everyone else’s,_  he thought, _I sure don’t use it to think._

  He glanced ruefully at the sky, allowing a few raindrops to his face.  _At least the weather matches my mood,_  he thought, turning his attention back to the earth. Pushing his wet hair back from his face, he contemplated the likelihood of him getting back before his clothes were ruined, then disregarded the thought. His clothes were already ruined. He knew he should be getting back to the mansion before someone sent a search party after him, but he really didn’t care. Peter wasn’t in the mood to hear Scott taunt him or brag about how he’d, despite being younger, found his soulmate before him.

  Deciding he needed to get back at some point, he began walking again in an attempt to slow his arrival to the Institute and become lost in the distraction that the muddy park offered. He became lost in thought once more within minutes, and was halfway through threatening to cut off his hand if his wrist didn’t stop burning when he slammed into something - correction,  _someone_  - and tumbled headfirst into a mud puddle.

“Mother _fucker!”_  He groaned, disentangling himself from the person he’d run into and sitting up in the mud.  _Great,_  he thought,  _just great._  He turned to look a the person, a girl, running a hand through his now mud-covered hair. He opened his mouth to apologize when he realized she was  _giggling._

“Gross,” she said, laughing as she wiped some mud from her face.

“S-sorry about that,” he said, trying to be apologetic, but her giggling was infectious, and soon enough he was laughing too, not only from the preposterousness of their situation but also out of relief. The first word she’d said had been ‘gross’. And directed at mud. Not at him.  _Not at him._

“It’s fine,” she managed, “but we look absolutely disgusting!” She was grinning as she said it, and he couldn’t help but grin back. She extended her hand toward him, eyes bright.

“I’m Y/N,” she said as he took her hand, “you must be motherfucker.” She looked him over. “I’m sure you’re even cuter without all the mud.” He laughed again.

“I think I’d remember screwing the mother of a girl as pretty as you, but, hey, I am pretty forgetful.” His words sent her back into her giggle fit, and he shook his head. “I’m Peter.” He glanced around. “We should probably get out of this mud.”

“You’re probably right, we- is that  _leather_? Oh my God, you’re an idiot!”

“Tell me about it,” he grumbled, standing up and offering her his hand. “At least it’s the mud you find gross and not me.” He slung mud from his hands, scowling.

“Hey, at least you didn’t have to explain to the teachers that you weren’t joking, motherfucker really  _was_  the word on your wrist.”

“You got me there,” he said, laughing. “Where were you headed? I’ll walk you there.

“How could I refuse such a gentlemanly offer? I was headed to the Xavier’s Institute, if you please.” He offered her his arm, and, as she took it, he noticed that his wrist wasn’t burning anymore. He smirked, thankful for the probability that it would likely never burn again, now that he’d met his soulmate.

“What a coincidence,” he said, grinning, “so was I.” 


End file.
